•y^k^yv' 


IJCa.^ 


!-!  BR  A 


6^     ^ 


THE   WINE-PRESS 

A  TALE  OF  WAR 


^U4uU  ^^^^  - 


THE   WINE-PKESS 


A    TALE   OF   WAR 


BY 

ALFRED   NOYES 

AUTHOR  OF 

"tales  ©f  the  meemaid  tavern,"  "SHERWOOD,"  "drake,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1913,  hy 
Alfred  Notes 


All  rights  reserved 


FIFTH    PRINTING 


December,  1913 


PR 

0?  ^1  i  S'fe  3 


LIBRARY 

STATE.NORMAL  ' 
M4NUAL  '"f.'T-';  ANij  H 


'^\^ 


DEDICATION 


{To  those  who  believe  that  Peace  is  the  corrupter 
of  nations) 

I 

Peace?    When  have  we  prayed  for  peace? 

Over  us  burns  a  star 
Bright,  beautiful,  red  for  strife! 
Yours  are  only  the  drum  and  the  fife 
And  the  golden  braid  and  the  surface  of  life. 

Ours  is  the  white-hot  war. 

II 

Peace?    When  have  we  prayed  for  peace? 

Ours  are  the  weapons  of  men. 
Time  changes  the  face  of  the  world. 
Your  swords  are  rust !    Your  flags  are  furled 
And  ours  are  the  unseen  legions  hurled 

Up  to  the  heights  again. 

ni 

Peace?    When  have  we  prayed  for  peace? 
Is  there  no  wrong  to  right? 


vi  DEDICATION 

Wrong  crying  to  God  on  high 
Here  where  the  weak  and  the  helpless  die, 
And  the  homeless  hordes  of  the  City  go  by, 
The  ranks  are  rallied  to-night. 

IV 

Peace?    When  have  we  prayed  for  peace? 

Are  ye  so  dazed  with  words? 
Earth,  heaven,  shall  pass  away 
Ere  for  your  passionless  peace  we  pray. 
Are  ye  deaf  to  the  trumpets  that  call  us  to-day. 

Blind  to  the  blazing  swords?, 


PRELUDE 


PRELUDE 


Sandalphon,    whose    white    wings    to    heaven 
up-bear 

The  weight  of  human  prayer, 
Stood  silent  in  the  still  eternal  light 

Of  God,  one  dreadful  night. 
His  wings  were  clogged  with  blood,  and  foul  with 
mire, 

His  body  seared  with  fire. 
"Hast  thou  no  word  for  Me?"  the  Master  said. 

The  angel  sank  his  head. 

n 

"Word  from  the  nations  of  the  East  and  West," 

He  moaned,  "that  blood  is  best; 
The  patriot  prayers  of  either  half  of  earth 

Hear  thou,  and  judge  their  worth. 
Out  of  the  obscene  seas  of  slaughter,  hear 

First,  the  first  nation's  prayer: 
'  0  God,  deliver  Thy  people.    Let  Thy  sword 

Destroy  our  enemies,  Lord.' 


X  PRELUDE 

III 

**Pure  as  the  first,  as  passionate  in  trust 

That  their  own  cause  is  just, 
Puppets  as  fond  in  those  dark  hands  of  greed, 

As  fervent  in  their  creed. 
As  bhndly  moved,  as  utterly  betrayed, 

As  urgent  for  thine  aid, 
Out  of  the  obscene  seas  of  slaughter,  hear 

The  second  nation's  prayer: 
*  0  God,  deliver  Thy  people.    Let  Thy  sword 

Destroy  our  enemies,  Lord.' 


TV 

*'Over  their  slaughtered  children,  one  great  cry 

From  either  enemy; 
From  either  host,  thigh-deep  in  filth  and  shame, 

One  prayer,  one  and  the  same; 
With  Thee,  with  Thee,  Lord  God  of  Sabaoth, 

It  rests  to  answer  both. 
Out  of  the  obscene  seas  of  slaughter,  hear, 

From  East  and  West  one  prayer: 
*0  God,  deliver  Thy  people.    Let  Thy  sword 

Destroy  our  enemies,  Lord.''' 


PRELUDE  xi 


Then,  on  the  cross  of  His  creative  pain, 

God  bowed  His  head  again. 
Then  East  and  West,  over  all  seas  and  lands, 

Out-stretched  His  pierced  hands. 
Then,  down  in  hell,  they  chuckled,  ''West  and 
East, 

Each  holds  one  hand,  at  least  .    .    .    . " 
"And  yet,"  Sandalphon  whispered,  "men  deny 

The  eternal  Calvary." 


THE  WINE-PRESS 

A  TALE  OP  WAR 


THE  WINE-PRESS 


A  MURDERED  man,  ten  miles  away, 

Will  hardly  shake  your  peace. 
Like  one  red  stain  upon  your  hand; 
And  a  tortured  child  in  a  distant  land 
Will  never  check  one  smile  to-day, 

Or  bid  one  fiddle  cease. 

Not  for  a  little  news  from  hell 

Shall  London  strive  or  cry. 
Tho'  thought  would  shatter  like  dynamite 
These  granite  hills  that  bury  the  right. 
We  must  not  think.     We  must  not  tell 

The  truth  for  which  men  die. 

To  watch  the  mouth  of  a  harlot  foam 

For  the  blood  of  Baptist  John 
Is  a  fine  thing  while  the  fiddles  play; 
For  blood  and  lust  are  the  mode  to-day. 
And  lust  and  blood  were  the  mode  of  Rome. 

And  we  go  where  Rome  has  gone. 
1 


THE  WINE-PRESS 

The  plaudits  round  the  circus  roll! 

On  the  old  track  we  swing. 
"Unrest,"  we  say,  "is  in  the  air"; 
And  a  flea  is  in  the  lap-dog's  chair. 
But  the  unrest  that  troubles  the  soul 

Is  a  more  difficult  thing. 

Unrest  that  has  no  lot  or  part 

In  anything  but  truth; 
Unrest,  unrest,  whose  passions  draw 
From  founts  of  everlasting  law. 
Unrest  that  nerves  the  out-worn  heart, 

And  calls,  like  God,  to  youth; 

The  truth  that  tickles  no  sweet  sense, 

The  pillow  of  stone  by  night, 
Unrest  that  no  man's  art  can  heal, 
Unrest  that  girds  the  brain  with  steel, 
And,  over  earth's  indifference. 
Like  God,  calls  up  the  light; 

The  truth  that  all  might  know,  but  all, 

With  one  consent,  refuse; 
To  call  on  that,  to  break  our  pact 
Of  silence,  were  to  make  men  act. 


THE  WINE-PRESS 

Good  taste  forbids  that  trumpet-call, 
And  a  censor  sends  our  news. 


It  comes  along  a  little  wire 

Sunk  in  a  deep  sea; 
It  thins  in  the  clubs  to  a  little  smoke 
Between  one  joke  and  another  joke; 
For  a  city  in  flames  is  less  than  the  fire 

That  comforts  you  and  me. 


Play  up,  then,  fiddles!    Play,  bassoon! 

The  plains  are  soaked  with  red. 
Ten  thousand  slaughtered  fools,  out  there, 
Clutch  at  their  wounds  and  taint  the  air, 
And   .    .    .  here  is  an  excellent  cartoon 

On  what  the  Kaiser  said. 


On  with  the  dance !     In  England  yet 
The  meadow-grass  is  green. 

Play  up,  play  up,  and  play  your  part! 

It  is  not  that  we  lack  the  heart 

But  that  fate  deftly  swings  the  net 
And  blood  is  best  unseen. 


THE  WINE-PRESS 

God  shields  our  eyes  from  too  much  light, 

Clothes  the  fine  brain  with  clay; 
He  wraps  mankind  in  swaddling  bands 
Till  the  trumpet  ring  across  all  lands — 
"The  time  is  come  to  stand  upright, 
And  flood  the  world  with  day." 

Not  yet,  0  God,  not  yet  the  gleam 

When  all  the  world  shall  wake! 
Grey  and  immense  comes  up  the  dawn 
And  yet  the  blinds  are  not  withdrawn, 
And,  in  the  dusk,  one  hideous  dream 
Forbids  the  day  to  break! 

Around  a  shining  table  sat 

Five  men  in  black  tail-coats; 
And,  what  their  sin  was,  none  could  say; 
For  each  was  honest,  after  his  way, 
(Tho'  there  are  sheep,  and  armament  firms, 

With  all  that  this  "connotes"). 

One  was  the  friend  of  a  merchant  prince, 

One  was  the  foe  of  a  priest. 
One  had  a  brother  whose  heart  was  set 
On  a  gold  star  and  an  epaulette. 
And — where  the  rotten  carcass  lies, 

The  vultures  flock  to  feast. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  I 

But — each  was  honest  after  his  way, 

Lukewarm  in  faith,  and  old; 
And  blood,  to  them,  was  only  a  word, 
And  the  point  of  a  phrase  their  only  sword, 
And  the  cost  of  war,  they  reckoned  it 

In  little  disks  of  gold. 


They  were  cleanly  groomed.     They  were  not 
to  be  bought. 

And  their  cigars  were  good. 
But  they  had  pulled  so  many  strings 
In  the  tinselled  puppet-show  of  kings 
That,  when  they  talked  of  war,  they  thought 

Of  sawdust,  not  of  blood; 


Not  of  the  crimson  tempest 

Where  the  shattered  city  falls: 
They  thought,  behind  their  varnished  doors, 
Of  diplomats,  ambassadors. 
Budgets,  and  loans  and  boundary-lines. 

Coercions  and  re-calls; 

Forces  and  Balances  of  Power; 
Shadows  and  dreams  and  dust: 


THE  WINE-PRESS 


And  how  to  set  their  bond  aside 
And  prove  they  lied  not  when  they  lied, 
And  which  was  weak,  and  which  was  strong, 
But — never  which  was  just. 


Yet  they  were  honest,  honest  men. 

Justice  could  take  no  wrong. 
The  blind  arbitrament  of  steel. 
The  mailed  hand,  the  armoured  heel. 
Could  only  prove  that  Justice  reigned 

And  that  her  hands  were  strong. 


For  they  were  strong.     So  might  is  right, 

And  reason  wins  the  day. 
And,  if  at  a  touch  on  a  silver  bell 
They  plunged  three  nations  into  hell, 
The  blood  of  peasants  is  not  red 

A  hundred  miles  away. 


But,  if  one  touch  on  a  silver  bell 
Should  loose,  beyond  control, 
A  blind  immeasurable  flood 
Of  lust  and  hate  and  tears  and  blood, 


THE  WINE-PRESS 

Unknown  immeasurable  powers 
That  swept  to  an  imseen  goal, 

Beyond  their  guidance  for  one  hour, 

Beyond  their  utmost  ken, 
No  huddled  madman,  crowned  with  straw, 
Could  so  transgress  his  own  last  law  .    .    . 
So  a  secretary  struck  the  bell 

For  these  five  honest  men. 


II 


With  brown  arms  folded,  by  his  hut,  Johann, 

The  young  wood-cutter,  waited.     A  bell  tolled, 
The  sunset  fires  along  the  mountain  ran, 


The  bucket  at  the  well  dripped  a  thin  gold, 

He  saw  the  peaks  like  clouds  of  lilac  bloom 
Above  him,  then  the  pine- woods,  fold  on  fold. 


Around  him,  slowly  filled  with  deep  blue  gloom. 
Sleep,  Dodi,  sleep,  he  heard  his  young  wife  say, 
Hushing  their  child  behind  him  in  the  room. 


THE  WINE-PRESS 


Then,  like  a  cottage  casement,  far  away, 

A  star  thrilled  in  a  pale  green  space  of  sky; 
And  then,  like  stars,  with  tiny  ray  on  ray, 


He  saw  the  homely  village-lights  reply: 

And  earth  and  sky  were  mingled  in  one  night. 
And  all  that  vast  dissolving  pageantry 


Drew  to  those  quintessential  points  of  light. 

Still  as  the  windless  candles  in  a  shrine, 
Significant  in  the  depth  as  in  the  height. 


0,  little  blue  pigeon,  sleep.    Sleep,  Dodi  mine, 

She  murmured.    Sleep,  little  rose  in  your  rosy  bed. 
The  moon  is  rocking,  rocking  to  rest  in  the  pine. 


Sleep,  little  blue  pigeon. 

Sleep  on  my  breast, 
Sleep,  while  the  stars  shine, 
Sleep,  while  the  big  pine 
Rocks  with  the  white  moon, 
Over  your  nest. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  9 

A  great  grey  cloud  sailed  slowly  overhead. 

She  stood  behind  Johann.     Around  his  eyes 
Her  soft  hands  closed.     "  Dodi's  asleep,"  she  said. 


He  drew  her  hands  away.     Then,  as  the  skies 
Darkened,   he   muttered,    "Sonia,   you   must 
know. 
IVe  kept  the  news  from  you  all  day." 


Surprise 
Parted  her  lips. 

"To-morrow  I  must  go." 

"Go?    Where?" Clear  as  a  silver  bell,  one 

star 
Thrilled    thro'    the    clouds.    Her    face    looked 
white  as  snow. 


"To-morrow  morning,  Sonia.    No,  not  far! 

To  join  the  regiment.     We  are  called,  you  see."— 

"But  why?     What  does  it  mean?" 

"Mean,  Sonia?    War!" 


10  THE  WINE-PRESS 


III 


The  troop-train  couplings  clanged  like  Fate 

Above  the  bugles'  din. 
Sweating  beneath  their  haversacks, 
With  rifles  bristling  on  their  backs, 
Like  heavy-footed  oxen 

The  dusty  men  trooped  in. 

It  seemed  that  some  gigantic  hand 

Behind  the  veils  of  sky 
Was  driving,  herding  all  these  men 
Like  cattle  into  a  cattle-pen. 
So  few  of  them  could  understand, 

So  many  of  them  must  die. 

Johann  was  crammed  into  his  truck. 

Far  off,  he  heard  a  shout. 
The  corporal  cracked  a  bottle  of  wine, 
And  passed  the  drink  along  the  line. 
The  iron  couplings  clanged  again. 

And  the  troop-train  rumbled  out. 

"I  left  my  wife  a  month's  pay," 
A  voice  droned  at  his  side. 


THE   WINE-PRESS  11 

"This  war,  they  say,  will  last  a  year. 
God  knows  what  will  become  of  her, 
With  three  to  feed."— "Ah,  that's  the  way 
In  war,"  Johann  replied. 


"They  say  that  war's  a  noble  thing! 

They  say  it's  good  to  die, 
For  causes  none  can  understand! 
They  say  it's  for  the  Fatherland! 
They  say  it's  for  the  Flag,  the  King, 

And  none  must  question  why!" 

The  train  shrieked  into  a  tunnel. 

"Duty? — Yes,  that  is  good. 
But  when  the  thing  has  grown  so  vast 
That  no  man  knows,  from  first  to  last, 
The  reason  why  he  finds  himself 

Up  to  his  neck  in  blood; 

"When  you  are  trapped  and  carried  along 

By  a  Power  that  runs  on  rails; 
Why,  open  that  door,  my  friends,  and  see 
The  way  you  are  fixed.     You  think  you  are 
free. 


12  THE  WINE-PRESS 

But  the  iron  wheels  are  singing  a  song 
That  stuns  our  fairy-tales; 


"When  you  are  lifted  up  like  this 

Between  a  finger  and  thumb, 
And  dropt  you  don't  know  where  or  why, 
And  told  to  shoot  and  butcher  and  die, 
And  not  to  question,  not  to  reply. 
But  go  like  a  sheep  to  the  shearers, 
A  lamb  to  the  slaughter,  dumb; 


"What?    Are  the  engines,  then,  our  God? 

Does  one  amongst  you  know 
The  reason  of  this  bitter  work?" — 
"Reason?    The  devilry  of  the  Turk! 
Lock,  stock,  and  barrel,  the  Sick  Man 

And  all  his  tribe  must  go." 


"England,  they  say,  is  on  our  side," 

Another  voice  began. 
" The  paper  says  it."—"  But,  I  thought  . 
Does  no  one  know  why  England  fought 


I 


THE  WINE-PRESS  13 

The  great  Crimean  war,  my  friends, 
Where  blood  so  freely  ran?" — 


"0,  ay!    They  say  that  England  backed 
The  wrong  horse,  a  sheer  blunder ! 

She  poured  out  blood  to  guarantee, 

For  all  time,  the  integrity 

Of  European  Islam.''— '' AhV'— 
The  train  rolled  on  Uke  thunder. 


Michael,  the  poet,  a  half  Greek, 
Listened  to  what  they  said. 

Twice  his  lips  parted  as  to  speak, 
And  twice  he  sank  his  head. 

Then  a  great  fire  burned  in  his  eyes, 
His  shallow  cheek  flushed  red. 


"  Comrades,  comrades,  you  know  not 

The  banners  that  you  bear ! 
There  is  a  sword  upon  our  side, 
A  sword  that  is  a  song,"  he  cried; 
Then,  through  the  song,  as  he  whispered  it, 

His  heart  poured  like  a  prayer: 


14  THE  WINE-PRESS 


"Whose  face,  whose  on  high, 

Lifts  thro'  the  sky 

That  aureole? 
Who,  over  earth  and  sea, 

Cries  Victory? 

Europe,  thy  soul 
Comes  home  to  thee. 

11 

"Is  it  a  dream,  a  cloud 

That  thus  hath  rent  the  shroud 

To  speak,  sublime  and  proud. 

Thy  faith  aloud; 
Whose  eyes  make  young  and  fair 
All  things  in  earth  and  air; 
The  shadow  of  whose  white  wing 

Makes  violets  spring? 

Ill 

"Is  it  the  angel  of  day. 
Whom  the  blind  pray 
Still  that  their  faith 


THE  WINE-PRESS  15 


Soundly  sleep  by  night? 
Blood-red,  yet  white, 
Re-risen,  she  saith 
Let  there  he  Light! 


w 

"Whose  are  the  conquering  eyes 
That  burn  thro'  those  dark  skies? 
Whose  is  the  voice  that  cries 

Awake,  arise? 
For,  if  she  speak  one  word 
To  sheathe  or  draw  the  sword, 
Her  nations,  on  that  day. 

Answer  her,  Yea! 


"It  is  the  angel  of  God, 
Sun-crowned,  fire-shod, 
Bidding  hate  cease. 

Her  proud  voice  on  high 
Bids  darkness  die. 
Her  name  is  Greece, 
Or  Liberty. 


16  THE  WINE-PRESS 

"Comrades/'  he  cried,  "you  know  not 

The  splendour  of  your  blades! 
This  war  is  not  as  other  wars: 
The  night  shrinks  with  all  her  stars. 
And  Freedom  rides  before  you 
On  the  last  of  the  Crusades. 


*'She  rides  a  snow-white  charger 
Tho'  her  flanks  drip  with  red, 

Before  her  blade's  white  levin 

The  Crescent  pales  in  heaven, 

Nor  shall  she  shrink  from  battle 
Till  the  sun  reign  overhead; 

Till  the  dead  Cross  break  in  blossom; 

Till  the  God  we  sacrificed. 
With  that  same  love  He  gave  us. 
Stretch  out  His  arms  to  save  us. 
Yea,  till  God  save  the  People, 

And  heal  the  wounds  of  Christ.'^ 

IV 

They  crept  across  the  valley 

Where  the  wheat  was  turning  brown. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  17 

There  was  no  cloud  in  the  blue  sky, 
No  sight,  no  sound  of  an  enemy. 
When  the  sharp  command  rang  over  them, 
Cover!  and  Lie  down! 

Johann,  with  four  beside  him, 

In  a  cottage  garden  lay. 
Peering  over  a  little  wall, 
They  heard  a  bird  in  the  eaves  call: 
And,  through  the  door,  a  clock  ticked, 

A  thousand  miles  away. 

A  thousand  miles,  a  thousand  years, 

And  all  so  still  and  fair. 
Then,  like  some  huge  invisible  train, 
Splitting  the  blue  heavens  in  twain. 
Out  of  the  quiet  distance  rushed 

A  thunder  of  shrieking  air. 

The  earth  shook  below  them, 

And  lightnings  lashed  the  sky. 
The  trees  danced  in  the  fires  of  hell, 
The  walls  burst  like  a  bursting  shell; 
And  a  bloody  mouth  gnawed  at  the  stones 

Like  a  rat,  with  a  thin  cry. 


18  THE  WINE-PRESS 

Then,  all  across  the  valley, 

Deep  silence  reigned  anew: 
There  was  no  cloud  in  the  blue  sky, 
No  sight,  no  sound  of  an  enemy 
But  the  red,  wet  shape  beside  Johann, 
And  that  lay  silent,  too. 


A  bugle  like  a  scourge  of  brass 

Whipped  thro'  nerve  and  brain; 
Up  from  their  iron-furrowed  beds 
The  long  hues  with  bowed  heads 
Plunged  to  meet  the  hidden  Death 
Across  the  naked  plain. 


They  leapt  across  the  lewd  flesh 

That  twisted  at  their  feet; 
They  leapt  across  wild  shapes  that  lay 
Stark,  besmeared  with  blood  and  clay 
Like  the  great  dead  birds,  with  the  glazed  eyes, 

That  the  farmer  hangs  in  the  wheat. 


Johann  plunged  onward,  counting  them, 
Scarecrows  that  once  were  men. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  19 

He  counted  them  by  twos,  by  fours, 
Then,  all  at  once,  by  tens,  by  scores! 
Cover!    Thro'  flesh  and  nerve  and  bone 
The  bugles  rang  again. 

They  lay  upon  the  naked  earth, 

Each  in  his  place. 
There  was  no  cloud  in  the  blue  sky, 
No  sight,  no  sound  of  an  enemy. 
A  brown  bee  murmured  near  Johann, 

And  the  sweat  streamed  down  his  face; 

The  quiet  hills  that  they  must  storm 

Slept  softly  overhead, 
When,  in  among  their  sun-Kt  trees 
A  sound  as  of  gigantic  bees 
Whirred,  and  all  the  plains  were  ripped 

With  leaping  streaks  of  lead. 

The  lightnings  leapt  among  the  lines 
Like  a  mountain-stream  in  flood. 

Scattering  the  red  clay  they  ran 

A  river  of  fire  around  Johann, 

And,  thrice,  a  spatter  of  human  flesh 
BHnded  him  with  blood. 


20  THE  WINE-PRESS 

Then  all  the  hills  grew  quiet 
And  the  sun  slept  on  the  field, 

There  was  no  cloud  in  the  blue  sky, 

No  sight,  no  sound  of  an  enemy; 

But,  over  them,  like  a  scourge  of  brass 
The  scornful  bugles  pealed. 


Forward!    At  the  double ^ 

Not  questioning  what  it  means! 
The  long  rows  of  young  men 
Carried  their  quivering  flesh  again 
Over  those  wide  inhuman  zones 
Against  the  cold  machines. 


Flesh  against  things  fleshless. 

Never  the  soul's  desire. 
Never  the  flash  of  steel  on  steel. 
But  the  brain  that  is  mangled  under  the 

wheel. 
The  nerves  that  shrivel,  the  limbs  that  reel 

Against  a  sheet  of  fire. 


They  reeled  against  the  thunder. 
Their  captain  at  their  head: 


THE  WINE-PRESS  21 

They  reeled,  they  clutched  at  the  air,  they  fell! 
Halt!    Rapid  fire!    The  bugles'  yell 
Rang  along  the  swaying  ranks, 
And  they  crouched  behind  their  dead. 


The  levelled  rifles  cracked  like  whips 
Against  the  dark  hill  brow: 

And,  for  a  peasant  as  for  a  king, 

A  dead  man  makes  good  covering; 

Or,  if  the  man  be  breathing  yet. 
There  is  none  to  save  him  now. 


Across  a  heap  of  flesh,  Johann 

Fired  at  the  unseen  mark. 
He  had  not  fired  a  dozen  rounds 
When  the  shuddering  lump  of  tattered  wounds 
Lifted  up  a  mangled  head 

And  whined,  like  a  child,  in  the  dark. 


Its  eyes  were  out.     The  raw  strings 

Along  its  face  lay  red; 
It  caught  the  barrel  in  its  hands 

And  set  it  to  its  head. 


22  THE  WINE-PRESS 

Its  jaw  dropped  dumbly,  but  Johann 

Saw  and  understood: 
The  rifle  flashed,  and  the  dead  man 

Lay  quiet  in  his  blood. 


Then  all  along  the  reeking  hills 

And  up  the  dark  ravines, 
The  long  rows  of  young  men 
Leapt  in  the  glory  of  life  again 
To  carry  their  warm  and  breathing  breasts 

Against  the  cold  machines; 


Against  the  Death  that  mowed  them  down 

With  a  cold  indifferent  hand; 
And  every  gap  at  once  was  fed 
With  more  life  from  the  fountain-head, 
Filled  up  from  endless  ranks  behind 

In  the  name  of  the  Fatherland. 


Mown  down!     Mown  down!     Mown 
down!     Mown  down! 
They  staggered  in  sheets  of  fire, 


THE  WINE-PRESS  23 

They  reeled  like  sliips  in  a  sudden  blast, 
And  shreds  of  flesh  went  spattering  past, 
And  the  hoarse  bugles  laughed  on  high, 
Like  fiends  from  hell — Retire! 


The  tall  young  men,  the  tall  young  men, 

That  were  so  fain  to  die, 
It  was  not  theirs  to  question, 

It  was  not  theirs  to  reply. 

They  had  broken  their  hearts  on  the 
cold  machines; 

And — they  had  not  seen  their  foe; 
And  the  reason  of  this  butcher's  work 

It  was  not  theirs  to  know; 
For  these  tall  young  men  were  children 

Five  short  years  ago. 


Headlong,  headlong,  down  the  hill. 

They  leapt  across  their  dead. 
Like  madmen,  wrapt  in  sheets  of  flame. 
Yelling  out  of  their  hell  they  came, 
And,  in  among  their  plunging  hordes, 
The  shrapnel  burst  and  spread. 


24  THE  WINE-PRESS 

The  shrapnel  severed  the  leaping  limbs 

And  shrieked  above  their  flight. 
They  rolled  and  plunged  and  writhed  like  snakes 
In  the  red  hill-brooks  and  the  blackthorn  brakes. 
Their  mangled  bodies  tumbled  Hke  elves 

In  a  wild  Walpurgis  night. 

Slaughter!    Slaughter!    Slaughter! 

The  cold  machines  whirred  on. 
And  strange  things  crawled  amongst  the  wheat 
With  entrails  dragging  round  their  feet, 
And  over  the  foul  red  shambles 

A  fearful  sunlight  shone. 

And  a  remnant  reached  the  trenches 
Where  the  black-mouthed  guns  lay  still. 

There  was  no  cloud  in  the  blue  sky, 

No  sight,  no  sound  of  an  enemy. 

The  surJight  slept  on  the  valley. 
And  the  dead  slept  on  the  hill. 


But  now,  beyond  the  hill,  there  rose 
A  dull  and  sullen  roar, 


THE  WINE-PRESS  25 

A  sound  as  of  distant  breakers 

That  burst  on  a  granite  shore. 
Nearer  it  boomed  and  nearer, 

A  muffled  doomsday  din, 
A  thunder  as  of  assaulting  seas 

When  the  tides  are  rolling  in. 

A  corporal  leapt  along  the  trench 

And  shook  his  blade; 
"God  sends  the  Greeks  up  from  the  South 

In  good  time  to  our  aid! 


"The  Turkish  dogs  are  in  the  trap 

Between  us!     God  is  good! 
They  are  driving  them  over  the  ridge  of  the  hill 
For  our  guns,  our  guns  to  work  their  will. 
Children  of  Marko,  you  shall  lap 

Your  bellyful  of  blood." 


Down,  the  dark  clouds  of  Islam  poured 

Over  the  ragged  height: 
Down,  into  the  valley  of  wheat. 
And  the  warm  dead  that  lay  at  their  feet, 


26  THE  WINE-PRESS 

The   men    they   had    slaughtered,    slaughtered, 
slaughtered. 
Grinned  up  at  their  flight. 


Behind,  the  conquering  thunders  rolled 

Along  the  abandoned  hill. 
Onward  the  scattering  squadrons  came 
Like  madmen,  wrapt  in  a  sheet  of  flame, 
Straight  for  the  lurking  trenches. 

Where  the  black-mouthed  guns  lay  still. 


And  through  the  masked  artillery  ran 
A  whimper  of  straim'ng  hounds. 

"Not  yet,"  the  order  passed;  "He  still, 
Lie  still,  and  lick  your  wounds." 


Johann  lay  quivering,  in  a  line 

That  whined  like  a  leashed  wolf-pack, 
Leashed  by  a  whisper,  sharp  as  a  sword, 
At  the  wJdte  of  their  eyes,  I  give  the  word. 
Then  let  the  sun  he  turned  to  blood, 
And  the  face  of  God  grow  black. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  27 

Up,  up,  like  plunging  bullocks 

The  dark-faced  Moslems  came. 
Johann  could  see  their  wild  eyes  shine, 
An  order  hissed  along  the  line, 
The  black  earth  yawned  like  a  crimson  mouth, 
And  slaughter,  slaughter,  slaughter,  slaughter, 

The  trenches  belched  their  flame. 


The  maxims  cracked  like  cattle-whips 

Above  the  struggHng  hordes. 
They  rolled  and  plunged  and  writhed  like  snakes 
In  the  trampled  wheat  and  the  blackthorn  brakes. 
And  the  lightnings  leapt  among  them 

Like  clashing  crimson  swords. 

The  rifles  flogged  their  wallowing  herds, 

Flogged  them  down  to  die. 
Down  on  their  slain  the  slayers  lay. 
And  the  shrapnel  thrashed  them  into  the  clay. 
And  tossed  their  limbs  like  tattered  birds 

Thro'  a  red  volcanic  sky. 

Then,  hard  behind  the  thunder,  swept 
Long  ranks  of  arrowy  gleams; 


28  THE  WINE-PRESS 

Out  of  the  trenches,  down  the  hill 
The  level  bayonets  charged  to  kill, 
And  the  massed  terror  that  took  the  shock 
Screamed  as  a  woman  screams. 


Before  Johann  a  young  face  rose 

Like  a  remembered  prayer; 
He  could  not  halt  or  swerve  aside 
In  the  onrush  of  that  murderous  tide, 
He  jerked  his  bayonet  out  of  the  body 
And  swung  his  butt  in  the  air. 


He  yelled  like  a  wolf  to  drown  the  cry 

Of  his  own  soul  in  pain. 
To  stifle  the  God  in  his  own  breast, 
He  yelled  and  cursed  and  struck  with  the  rest, 
And  the  blood  bubbled  over  his  boots 

And  greased  his  hands  again. 


Faces  like  drowned  things  underfoot 
Slipped  as  he  swung  round : 

A  red  mouth  crackled  beneath  his  boot 
Like  thorns  in  spongy  ground. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  29 

Slaughter?     Slaughter?     So  easy  it  seemed, 
This  work  that  he  thought  so  hard! 

His  eyes  Ut  with  a  flicker  of  hell, 

He  licked  his  lips,  and  it  tasted  well; 

And — once — he   had   sickened   to   watch   them 
slaughter 
An  ox  in  the  cattle-yard. 

For  lust  of  blood,  for  lust  of  blood. 

His  greasy  bludgeon  swung : 
His  rifle-butt  sang  in  the  air, 
And  the  things  that  crashed  beneath  it  there 
Were  a  cluster  of  grapes  in  the  wine-press, 

A  savour  of  wine  on  his  tongue. 

Till  now  the  allies'  bloody  hands 

Across  the  work  could  join; 
And,  as  Johann  stretched  out  his  own, 
A  man  that  was  cleft  to  the  white  breast-bone 
Writhed  up  between  his  knees  and  fired 

A  bullet  into  his  groin. 


He  clutched  at  the  wound.     He  groaned.     He  fell 
On  the  warm  breasts  of  the  slain. 


30  THE  WINE-PRESS 

Yet,  as  he  swooned,  he  dreamed  he  heard 
From  the  Hps  of  Greece  one  thunder-word, 
Freedom! — dreamed  that  the  sons  of  the  mountain 
Doubled  the  shout  again; 

Dreamed — for  surely  this  was  a  dream — 

He  saw  them,  red  from  the  fight, 
Embraced  and  sobbing,  "God  is  good. 
And  the  blood  that  seals  our  brotherhood 
Is  the  red  of  the  dawn  that  breaks  upon  Europe." 

Over  him  swept  the  night. 


V 


Michael  had  brought  a  message  home.    He  came, 
Groping,  with  blind  pits  where  his  eyes  had 
been, 
And  a  face  glorious  with  an  inner  flame, 

Whiter  than  death,  and  proud  with  things  unseen. 

He  came  to  Sonia;  and  she  stood  there,  wan. 
Watching  him,  wondering  what  such  pride  might 
mean 


THE  WINE-PRESS  31 


A  long  low  flame  along  the  mountains  ran. 
He  spoke  to  the  air  beyond  her. 


"Sonia,"  he  said, 
"//  was  your  birthday  when  I  left  Johann 


In  the  field-hospital.    Since  you  were  wed. 

The  first,   perhaps,   without   some  fond   word 
spoken, 

Some  gift.    And  so  he  sent  this  disk  of  lead 

Which  came  out  of  his  wound.     Wear  it  in  token 
That  lovers  cannot  meet,  nor  freemen  rest. 

Until  the  chains  of  tyranny  he  broken. 


Tell  her,"  he  said — blood  washed  the  golden 

west — 
^^My  wound  is  healing  fast."    With  fumbling 

hand 
Michael  drew  out  the  bullet  from  his  breast. 


She  took  and  kissed  it. 


32  THE  WINE-PRESS 

"Ah,  but  this  war  is  grand !" 
The  blind  man  murmured.     "Blessed  are  they 
that  see 
The  beautiful  angel  of  our  Fatherland, 


"The  glory  of  the  angel  of  Liberty 

Walking  thro'  all  those  teeming  tents  of  pain. 
The  tattered  hospitals  of  our  agony, 


"Where  broken  men  gaze  into  her  eyes  again. 

Like  happy  children.     Sonia,  I  am  told 
That  wounds  broke  open  for  joy,  tears  flowed 
like  rain 


"When  word  came  that  the  Allies  would  soon 
hold 
Byzantium,  and  the  mosque  that  in  old  days 
Belonged  to  Christ. 

There,  glimmering  like  pale  gold. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  33 

"High  on  the  walls,  they  say,  thro'  a  worn  haze 
Of  whitewash,  His  crowned  Face  till  time  shall 
cease 
Looks  down  in  pity  on  all  our  tangled  ways, 


"And  yearns  to  guide  us  into  the  way  of  peace. 
Would  God  I  might  be  with  them,  when  they 

ride, 
Those  hosts  of  Christ,  the  Balkan  States  and 

Greece, 


"Along  the  Golden  Horn!" 

The  sunset  died. 
Yet  his  bhnd  face  grew  glorious  with  light, 
And,  like  a  soul  in  ecstasy,  he  cried: 


"The  Prophet  is  fallen!     His  kingdom  is  rent 

asunder ! 
The  blood-stained  steeds  move  on  with  a  sound  of 

thunder ! 
The  sword  of  the  Prophet  is  broken.     His  cannon 

are  dumb. 
The  last  Crusade  rides  into  Byzantium ! 


34  THE  WINE-PRESS 

"See  —  on  the  walls  that  enshrined  the  high 

faith  of  our  fathers — 
Rich  as  the  dawn  thro'  the  mist  that  on  Bospho- 

rus  gathers, 
Gleam  the  mosaics,  the  rich  encrustations  of  old, 
Crimson  on  emerald,  azure  and  opal  on  gold. 


*' Faint  thro'  that  mist,  lo,  the  Light  of  the  World, 

the  forsaken 
Glory  of  Christ,  while  with  terror  the  mountains 

are  shaken, 
Silently  waits;  and  the  skies  with  wild  trumpets 

are  torn; 
Waits,  and  the  rivers  run  red  to  the  Golden  Horn; 


"Waits,  like  the  splendour  of  Truth  on  the  walls 

of  Creation; 
Waits,  with  the  Beauty,  the  Passion,  the  high 

Consecration, 
Hidden  away  on  the  walls  of  the  world,  in  a  cloud, 
Till  the  Veil  be  rent,  and  the  Judgment  proclaim 

Him  aloud. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  35 

;    "Ah,  the  deep  eyes,  San  Sofia,  that  deepen  and 

glisten; 
Ah,   the   crowned  Face   o'er   thine   altars,   the 

King  that  must  listen, 
Listen  and  wait  thro'  the  ages,  hsten  and  wait. 
For  the  tramp  of  a  terrible  host,  and  a  shout  in 

the  gate ! 


"  Conquerors,  what  is  your  sign,  as  ye  ride  thro' 

the  City? 
Is  it  the  sword  of  wrath,  or  the  sheath  of  pity? 
Nay,  but  a  Sword  Reversed,  let  your  hilts  on 

high 
Lift  the  sign  of  your  Captain  against  the  sky!  ■ 


"Reverse   the    Sword!    The    Crescent   is   rent 

asunder ! 
Lift  up  the  Hilt!    Ride  on  with  a  sound  of 

thunder  I 
Lift  up  the  Cross!    The  cannon,  the  cannon  are 

dumb. 
The  last  Crusade  rides  into  Byzantium!" 


36  THE  WINE-PRESS 

Under  the  apple-tree  a  shadow  stirred. 

An  old  grey  peasant  stood  there  in  the  night. 
^'Michael,"  he  said,  "this  is  bad  news  we^ve  heard!'^ 


"Bad  news?^^ — "0,  ay,  we^re  in  a  pretty  plight! 
They've    quarrelled! ' ' — ' '  Who? ' ' — ' '  Your    grea t 
Crusading  hand, 
Greece,  and  the  Ballzan  States.     They  re  going  to 
fight!'' 


—"Fight?    Fight?    For  what?''—"  Why,  don't  you 
understand 
What  war  is?    For  a  port  to  export  prunes^ 
For  Christ,  my  hoy,  and  for  the  Fatherland!" 


VI 


Johann  had  left  the  tents  of  death 
And  the  moan  of  shattered  men. 

By  God's  own  grace  he  was  fit  to  face 
The  cold  machines  again. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  37 

It  was  not  his  to  understand, 

It  was  only  his  to  know 
His  hand  was  against  the  comrade's  hand 

He  clasped,  a  month  ago. 

It  was  not  his  to  question. 

It  was  not  his  to  reply; 
But,  over  him,  the  night  grew  black; 
And  his  own  troop  was  falling  back, 
Falling  back  before  the  flag 

He  had  helped  to  raise  on  high. 

And  the  guns,  the  guns  that  drove  them, 

Had  thundered  with  his  own! 
The  men  he  must  kill  for  a  Httle  pay 
Had  marched  beside  him,  yesterday! 
Brothers  in  blood!    By  what  foul  lips 

Was  this  war- trumpet  blown? 

Back  from  the  heights  they  had  stormed  together, 
The  gulfs  that  had  gorged  their  dead. 

Back,  by  the  rotting,  shot-ripped  plain. 

Where  the  black  wings  fluttered  and  perched 
again. 

And  the  yellow  beaks  in  the  darkness 
Ripped  and  dripped  and  fed. 


38  THE  WINE-PRESS 

And  once  they  stayed  for  water 

By  a  deep  marble  well, 
Under  the  walls  of  a  shattered  town 
They  dropt  a  guttering  pine-torch  down, 
And  caught  one  glimpse  of  a  wine-press 

Choked  with  the  fruits  of  hell; 

One  glimpse  of  the  women  and  children, 

A  tangle  of  red  and  white! 
The  naked  fruitage  hissed  in  the  glare: 
They  caught  the  smell  of  the  singeing  hair. 
And  the  torch  was  out,  and  the  wine-press 

Black  as  the  covering  night. 

And  fear  went  with  them  down  the  roads 
Where  they  had  marched  in  pride; 

And  villages  in  panic  rout 

Poured  their  rumbling  ox-carts  out. 

And  women  dropped  beneath  their  loads 
And  sobbed  by  the  wayside. 

VII 

Once,  as  with  bleeding  feet  they  shambled  along, 
They  came  on  a  wayside  fire,  a  ring  of  light, 


THE  WINE-PRESS  39 

Where  old  men,  women  and  children,  a  motley 
throng, 


And  their  white  oxen,  heavy  with  day-long  flight, 
Crouched  and  couched  together,  on  the  cold 
ground, 
In  a  wild  blaze  of  beauty  that  gashed  the  night, 

Gashed  and  tattered  the  gloom  like  a  blood-red 
wound. 
Now  on  a  blue  or  an  orange  sheepskin  cloak 
It   splashed,    and    now    on    the    wagons    that 
shadowed  them  round. 

But  the  great  black  eyes  of  the  oxen,  forgetting 

the  yoke. 
Shone  with  a  sheltering  pity,  so  meek,  so  mild, 
While  the  women  lay  resting  against  them;  and 

the  smoke 

Rolled  with  the  cloud;  and  Johann,  with  a  heart 
running  wild, 
Saw  one  pale  woman  that  sat  in  the  midst  of 
them, 


40  THE  WINE-PRESS 

With    a    dark-blue    robe    wrapped    round    her, 

suckhng  a  child. 
And  he  thought  of  the  child  and  the  oxen  of 

Bethlehem. 


VIII 

Back,  they  fell  back  before  the  guns, 

Till  on  one  last  dark  night 
They  lay  along  a  mountain-ridge 

Entrenched  for  their  last  fight. 
A  pine-wood  rolled  below  them, 

And  the  moon  was  all  their  light. 

Johann  looked  down,  in  a  wild  dream, 

On  that  remembered  place : 
O,  like  a  ghost,  he  saw  once  more 
The  path  that  led  to  his  own  door, 
A  white  thread,  wdnding  thro'  the  pines. 

And  the  tears  ran  down  his  face. 


A  ghost  on  guard  among  the  dead 

With  a  heart  running  wild, 
For  the  light  of  a  little  window-pane 


THE  WINE-PRESS  41 

And  all  the  sorrow  of  earth  again, 
A  crust  of  bread,  a  head  on  his  breast, 
And  the  cry  of  his  own  child; 


The  cup  of  cold  water 

That  Love  would  change  to  wine  .    .    . 
Sonia!    Dodi!     O,  to  creep  back!   .    .    . 
There  was  a  cry  in  the  woods,  the  crack 
Of  a  pistol,  and  a  startled  shout, 

Halt!    Give  the  countersign! 

Then  all  the  black  unguarded  woods 

Behind  them  spat  red  flame. 
A  thousand  rifles  shattered  the  night; 
And,  after  the  lightning,  up  the  height, 
A  thousand  steady  shafts  of  light, 

The  moonlit  bayonets  came. 

Hurled  to  the  trench  by  the  storm  of  steel 

Under  a  heap  of  the  slain, 
Like  one  quick  nerve  in  that  welter  of  death, 
Johann  quivered,  blood  choked  his  breath. 
And  the  charge  broke  over  him  like  a  sea. 

And  passed  like  a  hurricane. 


42  THE  WINE-PRESS 

He  crept  out  in  the  ghastly  moon 

By  a  black  tarpaulined  gun. 
He  stood  alone  on  the  moaning  height 
While  the  bayonets  flashed  behind  the  flight, 
"S^onia!   DodiP^   .    .    .     He  turned.     He  broke 

For  the  path,  with  a  stumbling  run. 


Down  by  the  little  white  moon-lit  thread, 
He  rushed  thro'  the  ghostly  wood, 

A  living  man  in  a  world  of  the  dead, 
To  the  place  where  his  own  home  stood. 


For  War  had  "trained"  him,  strengthened  his 
heart 

To  bear  that  glory  again : 
And  he  was  "fitted"  to  play  his  part 

At  last,  in  a  "world  of  men." 


The  embers  of  his  hut  still  burned; 

And,  in  the  deep  blue  gloom. 
His  bursting  eyeballs  yet  could  see 
A  white  shape  under  the  apple-tree, 


THE  WINE-PRESS  43 

A  naked  body,  dabbled  with  red,-— -    • 


Like  a  drift  of  apple-bloom. 

^^  sf.v.: 


L_»t3 


MANUAL  '.    ■ 
SAKTA  l.\:. 


msiBL 


g&^ 


She  lay  like  a  broken  sacrai 
That  the  dogs  have  defiled, 

^'Soniaf    Sonia!    Speak  to  we/" 
He  babbled  like  a  child. 


The  child,  the  child  that  lay  on  her  knees.  . 

Devil  nor  man  may  name 
The  things  that  Europe  must  not  print, 
But  only  whisper  and  chuckle  and  hint, 
Lest  the  soul  of  Europe  rise  in  thunder 

And  swords  melt  in  the  flame. 


She  bore  the  stigmata  of  sins 
That  devil  nor  man  may  tell; 

For  0,  good  taste,  good  taste,  good  taste. 
Constrains  and  serves  us  well; 

And  the  censored  truth  that  dies  on  earth 
Is  the  crown  of  the  lords  of  hell. 


44  THE   WINE-PRESS 

The  quiet  moon  sailed  slowly  out 

From  a  grey  cloud  overhead, 
When,  out  of  the  gnarled  old  apple-tree 
There  came  a  moan  and,  heavily 
A  patter  of  blood  fell,  gout  by  gout 
On  the  white  breast  of  the  dead. 


There  came  a  moan  from  the  apple-tree, 

And  the  moon  showed  him  there, — 
The  blind  man  with  his  arms  stretched  wide, 
And  a  nail  thro'  his  hand  on  either  side, 
A  nail  thro'  the  naked  palms  of  his  feet 
And  a  crown  of  thorns  in  his  hair. 


Johann  knelt  down  before  him, 

''0  brother,  O  Son  of  Man, 
It  was  not  ours  to  doubt  or  reply 
When  the  people  were  led  out  to  die, 
This,  this  is  the  end  of  our  Liberty, 
And  the  goal  for  which  we  ran. 


THE  WINE-PRESS  45 

"0,  Christ  of  the  little  children.  ..." 

Over  his  naked  blade 
Johann  bowed,  bowed  and  fell. 
Gasping,  ^'Sonia,  Dodi,  tell 
Your  God  in  heaven,  I  grow  so  weary 

Of  all  that  He  has  made.'' 


Then,  still  as  frost  across  the  world 

The  tender  moonlight  spread, 
And,  one  by  one,  from  the  apple-tree 
The  drops  of  blood  fell  heavily. 
And  the  blind  man  that  was  crucified 
Spake  softly,  to  the  dead. 


''Conquered,  we  shall  conquer! 

They  have  not  hurt  the  soul. 
For  there  is  another  Captain 

Whose  legions  round  us  roll, 
Battling  across  the  wastes  of  Death 

Till  all  he  healed  and  whole. 


Till,  members  of  one  Body, 
Our  agony  shall  cease; 


46  THE  WINE-PRESS 

Till,  like  a  song  thro''  chaos, 
His  marching  worlds  increase; 

Till  the  souls  that  sit  in  darkness 
Behold  the  Prince  of  Peace; 

"  Till  the  dead  Cross  break  in  blossom; 

Till  the  God  we  sacrificed, 
With  that  same  love  He  gave  us, 
Stretch  out  His  arms  to  save  us, 
Yea,  till  God  save  the  People, 

And  heal  the  wounds  of  Christ.''^ 


EPILOGUE 
THE  DAWN  OF  PEACE 

Yes "on  our  brows  we  feel  the  breath 

Of  dawn,"  though  in  the  night  we  wait! 
An  arrow  is  in  the  heart  of  Death, 

A  God  is  at  the  doors  of  Fate ! 
The  Spirit  that  moved  upon  the  Deep 

Is  moving  through  the  minds  of  men: 
The  nations  feel  it  in  their  sleep. 

A  change  has  touched  their  dreams  again. 


Voices,  confused  and  faint,  arise, 

Troubling  their  hearts  from  East  and  West< 
A  doubtful  light  is  in  their  skies, 

A  gleam  that  wdll  not  let  them  rest : 
The  dawn,  the  dav/n  is  on  the  wing, 

The  stir  of  change  on  every  side, 
Unsignalled  as  the  approach  of  Spring, 

Invincible  as  the  hawthorn-tidco 

47 


48  EPILOGUE 

Have  ye  not  heard,  tho'  darkness  reigns, 

A  People's  voice  across  the  gloom, 
A  distant  thunder  of  rending  chains, 

And  nations  rising  from  their  tomb, 
Then — if  ye  will — uplift  your  word 

Of  cynic  wisdom,  till  night  fail. 
Tell  us  He  came  to  bring  a  sword, 

Spit  poison  in  the  Holy  Grail. 

Say  that  we  dream!    Our  dreams  have  woven 

Truths  that  out-face  the  burning  sun: 
The  lightnings,  that  we  dreamed,  have  cloven 

Time,  space,  and  linked  all  lands  in  one! 
Dreams!    But  their  swift  celestial  fingers 

Have  knit  the  world  with  threads  of  steel. 
Till  no  remotest  island  lingers 

Outside  the  world's  great  Commonweal. 

Tell  us  that  custom,  sloth,  and  fear 

Are  strong,  then  name  them  "common  sense" ! 
Tell  us  that  greed  rules  everywhere, 

Then  dub  the  lie  "experience": 
Year  after  year,  age  after  age. 

Has  handed  down,  thro'  fool  and  child. 
For  earth's  divinest  heritage 

The  dreams  whereon  old  wisdom  smiled. 


EPILOGUE  49 

Dreams  are  they?    But  ye  cannot  stay  them, 

Or  thrust  the  dawn  back  for  one  hour ! 
Truth,  Love,  and  Justice,  if  ye  slay  them. 

Return  with  more  than  earthly  power: 
Strive,  if  ye  will,  to  seal  the  fountains 

That  send  the  Spring  thro'  leaf  and  spray: 
Drive  back  the  sun  from  the  Eastern  mountains, 

Then — bid  this  mightier  movement  stay. 

It  is  the  Dawn!     The  Dawn!    The  nations 

From  East  to  West  have  heard  a  cry, 

Though  all  earth's  blood-red  generations 

By  hate  and  slaughter  climbed  thus  high, 
Here — on  this  height — still  to  aspire, 

One  only  path  remains  untrod. 
One  path  of  love  and  peace  climbs  higher. 

Make  straight  that  highway  for  our  God. 


w.our    ,  ^  fllame 


A  A         001  431  448  8 

llllllillllllillillillillllllilllillliillllll 


.Ai\ij 


